Sirens & Scalpels
by Thomas Tom Tom
Summary: Your daily dose of Predalert. (Warning: should not be taken as actual medicine.) Proudly fights the overwhelming armies of Jazz/Prowl. No set world or time period; AUs and Shattered Glasses are possible and likely. Prowl/Fem!Red Alert.
1. Magic

**A/N: So I wanted to write some more adorables, but couldn't fit it into Echo. So I've got this now, a depository of Predalert. I don't care if you don't want it, you're getting it anyway. So there.**

* * *

_**"Magic."** In which, on pre-war Cybertron, Prowl has to agree with his partner._

* * *

Enforcer Barricade dragged a heavily damaged and wincing Enforcer Prowl through into the small Kalisian medical clinic.

"You're a moron, Prowl." he told his partner. "I told you that the guy had a sword, but did you listen? Noooo."

"I did not see you lifting a servo to help, Barricade." Prowl shot back with a wince, his wings askew and a servo clamped over the slash in his side from which Energon was steadily leaking.

"You told me you had it covered!" Barricade pointed out.

"You have never taken that into account before. I assumed you would assist me regardless."

"Oh, so the one time I actually follow orders you needed me to not follow orders. Right." Barricade harrumphed. "And besides, the big grey guy had me pinned."

"This was the same grey mech who was a clear head shorter than you, I assume."

"He had ghosts. And a tornado."

"I see."

Barricade deposited Prowl on one of the waiting room chairs then lowered himself down into one opposite. Prowl looked around curiously, ignoring the Energon dripping down through his digits and onto the floor. "This is not somewhere I am familiar with." he said perversely.

"Yah, it's one of my regular haunts." Barricade replied, kicking back and clasping his digits behind his helm. "The doc here's _magic_."

Prowl raised an optic ridge, but didn't say anything.

"She is...well, just don't mention the paranoia glitch. And don't take offence if she don't trust you straight off." Barricade elaborated. "Red Alert's a little, ah, _touchy. _Kinda like you."

"I will ignore that comment."

"Relax, partner. Red knows her stuff. Easy on the optics, too, if you know what I mean."

"Let us not play the ''if you know what I mean'' game again, thank you; but yes, I did infer that this Red Alert was at least a _little_ attractive or you would not bother associating with her." Prowl quarter-smirked.

Barricade let out an amused snort. "Was that a joke? I ain't _that _shallow."

Prowl made a disbelieving sniffing noise. "I will not dignify that with an answer."

Barricade sat up a little straighter as someone else entered the room. "Hey, Red. I got a wounded soldier here for ya."

A feminine voice with an educated East Kalisian accent replied. "Oh. It's you, Barricade. Is that some poor peon you ''_accidentally_'' blasted a ''_little too much_'' again?"

Barricade laughed. "Nah, it's my partner, Prowl. Say hi, Prowl!"

Prowl turned in his seat and clapped optics on the most beautiful femme he had ever seen; with pristine white and bright red paint, light blue optics, full lips pursed irritatedly, long wings attached to her hips with the medical symbol on them, and a remarkably bold piece of glass mounted in her chest armour which showed a bit of protoform. His engine stalled and turned over a few times while whatever he was planning to say went straight out of his processor.

Barricade flicked him on the shoulder. Prowl shook his head to stop himself staring. "Hello. I am Prowl." he said awkwardly.

Barricade nodded to him. "Sorry about him. He's not good with emotions."

"Yes, yes. Can you just drag him up onto the berth here so I can get started?" Red Alert said shortly, looking away with a dusting of light blue on her faceplates.

Barricade pulled Prowl to his stabilising servos with a grin the size of Kaon stretching across his angular faceplates, yellow optics flashing. "I think she likes you." he whispered, nudging Prowl. "That's a first."

Prowl didn't believe him, but said nothing and allowed himself to be pulled up onto the medical berth. Red Alert cracked the cables in her neck and drew a laser scalpel from her subspace.

Prowl found his voice. "I do hope you know what you are doing with that."

Red Alert twirled the scalpel around her digits and put a servo on her hip. Barricade laughed. "Oh, she does. Near enough took my optic out with it when I burst in here the first time."

"This does not reassure me." Prowl said, frowning.

Red Alert seemed not to care about that, and promptly cut Prowl's scorched hip armour off with her scalpel, put a servo on the Energon-slathered protoform with a long slice in it, and it was at this point that Prowl glitched out.

When he onlined again, he was back at the Enforcer headquarters, Barricade was on the verge of offlining himself laughing, and he had _Red Alert – 0.2659.683.21_ written in flowing script on his datapad, and a little scuff of scarlet paint on his faceplates.

"I have to agree with you, Barricade." Prowl said in a very shell-shocked voice. "Red Alert is indeed _magic_."


	2. Bodyguard

**A/N: I loved writing this one, and drew heavily on Dishonoured's Corvo. Also did a cover drawing, at last. Hurrah! Favourite if you liked, follow if you want more, and review no matter what. Enjoy! **

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_"**Bodyguard"**_**.** _Pre-war Cybertron._ _In which Red Alert decides she needs a bodyguard._

* * *

Red Alert did not need a bodyguard.

Who was she kidding? She desperately needed one. There were assassins and murderers and Primus knew what else around every corner, and she couldn't deal with that.

So began the search. Of course, she was so paranoid she turned down most of the applicants because they were...they were...well, she just didn't trust them.

Then, when the tall ex-Enforcer still in patchy uniform black and white paint with a faded crimson chevron on his helm and a few patches of oxidation on his chin (obviously unemployed for some time) walked in, and when she suddenly decided, _yes, this is the one, _everything seemed to be substantially safer.

Prowl (his name was Prowl, she learned – not that Prowl talked much at all) was reliable, and logical to a fault (she learned through her insanely rigorous questioning that his tendency to overanalyse situations and glitch out led to him being discharged from the Enforcers);he was very good at tactically looking very loomy and intimidating so Red Alert had no trouble at all; and he was enthusiastic in protecting Red Alert (from both words and fists – he literally grabbed the slimy mech on the medic council – Knock Out, his name was – by the neck and hurled him out of the door for making more than a few overly distasteful and quite suggestive comments in Red Alert's direction) and was also very _good _at protecting Red Alert (the last poor glitch who tried to jump her after she had gone into the Kalisian back streets on call got his arm ripped straight off and lost three of his abdomen supports, along with taking an acid beam to the chestplate and singeing his door-wings); _and _he never commented once on Red Alert's neurotic/irrational behaviour regarding security (which she though was nice).

Basically, Red Alert really did like her bodyguard. But, her insecure tendencies led her to randomly speculate, one day, just _why _Prowl didn't talk much. Maybe he was mute. (She dismissed that one, as he _did _talk, just not _much._) Maybe he had processor damage. Maybe he was plotting to murder her in her sleep.

Rationality kicked its way back into her thoughts and she decided that maybe he just didn't really like her.

This made Red Alert extremely sad for some reason, so she resolved to be nicer to Prowl. That _was_ how you made others like you, right?

So, she asked him about things. What he liked, what he didn't like, and then she sent him to get his paint retouched and to clean himself up, and then she sat in one of the squares with another femme medic called Minerva (who wasn't nearly as safe-feeling as Prowl was) and talked about things, until Prowl reappeared looking much cleaner and with a fresh, shining paintjob (still in black-and-white monochrome, which looked quite dashing on him, actually), upon which Red Alert got very flustered because she realised just _how _attractive Prowl was, and Minerva nudged her and asked in a stage-whisper where she could get her own super cute Enforcer escort, so Red Alert flicked her visor and her face-mask down and hid behind them until Minerva had cheerfully knocked her on the shoulder and gone off giggling.

Prowl didn't seem affected. Of course he wasn't. Prowl was completely fantastic and loyal and brilliant at everything. That was nice.

After this, she decided to take the Enforcer back to her own home (he was currently living under a bridge or something as he didn't stay in Red Alert's smallish living space in West Kalis; she had cameras and laser tripwires and an illegal neutron assault turret in there and it was safe). Inside, she noticed Prowl looking quite longingly at her Energon cubes and graciously handed him one without him even asking, which surprised him (she let out a girlish giggle because he was so adorable when he was surprised), and then she talked at him until he finally opened up and they talked properly (Red Alert discovered just how good a conversationalist Prowl was, which was promptly added to the fairly large list already writing itself under the title "Why Prowl is Amazing").

This happened at least three times, and then, on the fourth time, she was so at ease with Prowl being around her that she pressed a small, apprehensive kiss on his cheek on his way out. He froze and his door-wings flapped excitedly. Red Alert regretted the kiss almost instantly until Prowl dipped his helm and placed an even smaller and more apprehensive kiss on her cheek, and then she smiled.

So maybe Red Alert didn't need a bodyguard. But that wasn't going to stop her having one.

* * *

**More d'aww.**


	3. Creepy

**A/N: Hey! Yes, I take requests. Enjoy and keep the reviews coming! (A follow or a favourite wouldn't hurt either, you know.)**

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_**"Creepy".** Continuation of the "**Magic" **story,in which Barricade is almost traumatised._

* * *

"Prowl," Barricade said, dragging Prowl by the arm into Red Alert's clinic, "if I didn't know better I'd say you were gettin' damaged on purpose just so's you get carted off into Red's loving embrace."

"Then it is good that you know better, Barricade." Prowl replied, leaking Energon all over the ground in a steady stream.

"No, seriously; it's really creepy, your obsession with this femme." Barricade grunted.

"We cannot arrest anyone for being creepy, Barricade, so I shall count myself lucky in that respect." Prowl replied.

"Wait, what?" Barricade asked. He switched on his comlink. "Hey, Streetwise? We still got that guy in the clink?"

"_You mean the creepy one?" _

"Yah. You gotta let him go. Turns out we're not allowed to do that."

"_Shame." _

"I know, right?"

Barricade's momentary business concluded, he returned to dragging Prowl. "But seriously,_ every _time we're in Kalis, ya get shot or stabbed in circumstances which you avoid literally everywhere else. It's _way _too much of a coincidence that you _also_ insist on being taken here." he pointed out.

"Not really. Red Alert is the best medic in Kalis."

"You've literally never been to any other medic in Kalis in your life."

"I am told the others are inferior."

"No-one tells you _anything!_ I am _literally_ the only _sentient being_ who even _talks_ to you!"

"Ah."

Barricade dragged Prowl all the way into Red Alert's waiting room, threw him into the designated Energon-soaked "Prowl's Med Berth", and collapsed into his own chair beside it. "I am _way_ too nice to you, Prowl."

"And I am thankful for it all the time, Barricade." Prowl replied serenely.

Red Alert floated into the room. "Oh, hello Prowl. Barricade."

"Hello, Red Alert." Prowl said, his optics lighting up as his door-wings flicked up in the traditional Praxian (as Barricade called it) "you-me-med-berth-three-clicks" way.

An easy smile came to Red Alert's faceplates. "Oh dear. Damaged again? How badly, Prowlie?

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that, Red Alert." Prowl said, but his three-quarters-smile told otherwise.

"No you don't, Prowlie." Red Alert replied primly. "Now, let's get that armour off, and have a look at the damage."

Barricade subconsciously checked the distance to the door, and whether he could make it before things got far too heated for his liking.

"So can we speed this up a bit?" he asked. "Because I've got a warm Energon with my name on it back at the precinct. And I've gotta go and fill out Prowl's damage report. Because I'm such a good friend."

"Indeed you are, Barricade." Prowl told him from where Red Alert was doing _something _to his upper body on the medberth. "Indeed you are."

Red Alert clicked her tongue. "There's a lot of shrapnel in your shoulder, Prowl. It looks quite painful."

"Yes, there are some shards in my door-wing sensors as well. They are more sensitive, so there is more pain there especially. If you could start there...?" Prowl explained faintly.

Barricade was proficient enough in ''Prowl speak'' to understand that that was be Prowl ''getting his flirt on.''

"Well, I'll disable the pain receptors in your door-wings, but I'll need to get the shrapnel out of your shoulder first." Red Alert told Prowl. She tapped him on the helm like a disobedient sparkling. "If you can be patient, that is."

Prowl levelled his trademark raised optic ridge at her. "I can be patient."

Barricade did _not _want to know what was coming next. He really didn't. Thankfully, nothing came next, and Red Alert sort-of playfully (if that was even possible, which Barricade highly doubted) cleaned out the shrapnel (which she didn't mention was from Prowl's _own _thermobaric missiles – yes, he _was _that desperate, Barricade concluded) from Prowl's shoulder.

When Red Alert started kissing the small nicks in Prowl's door-wings (causing him to involuntarily spasm) Barricade transformed and got the Pit out of there, and waited by the door because he didn't want to see his partner doing _anything _like _that _ever.

Prowl eventually emerged from the clinic, accompanied by Red Alert.

"You know, Prowl," Red Alert said, her servos clasped in front of her and a nervous stabiliser tracing shapes on the ground, "you don't have to keep getting shot just to come and see me."

"Would you be insulted if I told you I rather liked you looking after me?" Prowl queried.

Red Alert giggled quietly. "No. But I worry about you."

"You don't have to. Barricade is always skulking somewhere to pull me out of anything I get myself into."

"I might not have to worry, but I'm going to anyway." Red Alert sighed. "Just be safe, okay?"

She stood up on the tips of her stabilisers and placed a quick kiss on Prowl's lips.

Prowl's lips cracked into a rare full-smiled. "Okay."

Red Alert turned and walked back into her clinic, Prowl staring after her.

Barricade sidled up behind him. "Ugh. I think I was going to purge my tanks if that kept up. You charmer, you."

"Be quiet." Prowl said, but he was still smiling into the door of Red Alert's clinic.

* * *

**I do like Barricade. He's rather epic.**


	4. Drabbles

**A/N: I did a bunch of these late at night, and wow, it is fun. You can probably expect more of this kind of thing.  
I might even do a music-shuffle-challenge thing, too.**

* * *

**Drabbles**

* * *

"_**Surprised"**_

Prowl appeared beside Red Alert at the table unannounced, causing the neurotic white-and-red femme to let out a yelp of surprise and fall off her chair waving her arms ludicrously quickly.

"Just me, Red Alert." Prowl said tiredly, helping her back up.

"Don't scare me like that!" Red Alert berated him.

* * *

"_**Help" - Humanised AU**_

Paul raised his fist and knocked twice on the door.

"Go away!" came the shouted reply.

Paul came in anyway, opening the door, ducking under the foreseen thrown object (a very small, pink Swiss Army knife) and raising an eyebrow at the thrower of the very small, pink Swiss Army knife, who brushed a bit of scarlet-dyed hair out of her eyes and turned back to her broken laptop.

"Sorry, Paul." the girl said awkwardly. "Stupid cameras broke again."

"It's fine, Eilidh." Paul replied, dusting off the slight nick in his coat that the knife had made.

Eilidh looked away a little shyly. "You know, you can call me Red if you want. I don't mind. Everyone else does."

Paul's lip twitched into half a smile. "I'm not everyone else. Now," he asked, looking around, "do you need any help fixing your cameras?"

* * *

"_**Swap" - Humanised AU**_

Eilidh Dalton liked to wear a very, very long, very, very red, scarf.

This was literally the kind of scarf that could go around her neck twice and still hang down around her ankles. She liked the sense of security it gave her - she could wrap it up around her mouth and hide behind it if she felt especially threatened. The scarf never left her neck.

Paul Rowley was never seen without his large, black notepad. A notepad filled with notes and scribbles and occasionally drawings and sketches, but always impeccably organised and contained. Writing in the notepad was Paul's easy stress-relief - even holding the thing in his hand made him feel much calmer. Which was a large part of the reasons why he never let it leave his side.

So, when Jack (from the jazz club) found the two of them passed out after some party neither had wanted to go to but had been dragged to by their overenthusiastic friends, with Eilidh's scarf tangled up around Paul and Paul's notepad lying open in Eilidh's hand with about fifteen games of noughts & crosses drawn in red biro, he was understandably surprised.

* * *

"_**Tangled" - Humanised AU**_

"Hey! Red! Re-ed! RED! RED!"

Eilidh Dalton blinked sharply as someone waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her out of her dream.

"Huh? What?" she asked intelligently.

"So you are alive." Eilidh's friend Minerva said, putting a hand on her hip. "What'cha looking at, Red?"

Eilidh sat up sharply. "Nothing."

Minerva smirked. "Right. Is nothing about yay high, black hair, super dreamy, right over there?"

"No!" Eilidh said, her cheeks flushing pink. "I wasn't looking at Paul."

Minerva grinned evilly. "I was talking about Jack, Red. Got you!"

Eilidh sighed and slumped onto the table. "Fine, I was looking at Paul."

"Oh, you were ravishing the boy with your eyes, Red." Minerva teased. She put on a susceptible impression of Eilidh's English accent and fanned herself. "Oh, Paul, hold me like you hold your weird and slightly creepy notepad!"

"The notepad's not weird or creepy!" Eilidh defended, flushing deeper pink."It's mysterious and alluring!" She suddenly realised what she was saying and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Paul? You alive in there? Hell-oooo?" Jack asked, tapping Paul on the side of the head.

"I'm fine, Jack."

"Looked to me like you were starin' little Red over there down a storm." Jack replied slyly.

"Her name is-" Paul started stiffly, but Jack interrupted.

"Yeah, yeah, ah've heard this shpiel before - her name is Eilidh."

Paul suddenly looked straight down into his notepad, then back up. "I think she looked at me."

"Nah. The other one's having a definite look at ol' Jazzers, though."

"Why you insist on calling yourself by your own nickname continues to elude me."

"Quiet, loverboy."

"I-"

"Don't start with me, Paul."

"I've got something to do, see you around." Paul finally said, standing up and escaping his smirking friend.

He walked off, turning once to try and catch another, little, glance of Eilidh, and in that instant, the very girl walked straight into him, toppling over and getting them both completely tangled up in her exceedingly long red scarf.

Eilidh found herself literally nose-to-nose with the object of her affections.

She blushed furiously as a few catcalls (in Jack and Minerva's distinctive dulcet tones) washed over her.

"Hi..." she awkwardly said in little over a whisper.

Paul looked even more mortified than she did, if that was even possible.

"Hi..." he replied, fruitlessly moving his arms in an effort to escape the scarf. Un(?)fortunately, he found he was completely and utterly stuck.

"We might be here for a while." he told Eilidh.

"Oh, this is all my fault. Stupid scarf." Eilidh berated herself.

Paul smiled a little at her. "I don't mind - well, that is, I don't have anywhere to go - well, um..." he rambled slightly.

Jack walked past, followed by Minerva. "See you later, lovebirds!" they called, high-fiving.


	5. Rainbows

**A/N: Yay, I did a thing! **

**Pointless fluff and maybe some hints of Glideracer or Moonpower, whatever that ship's called. Whatever.**

**Optimus Prime drove past me two days ago. The actual Optimus Prime truck. The Peterbilt. With flames and Autobot sigils and everything.  
It was glorious. **

**Review if you liked it, yay! Next chapter'll either be something Tron-inspired or another fluffy oneshot. **

* * *

_**"Rainbows", **in which Jazz stalks, Powerglide is sceptical, and Moonracer fangirls._

* * *

Jazz watched as Prowl stalked through the Ark's common room, twitching slightly and with a look edging on crazed in his optics.

"So what's with him, eh?" Powerglide asked. The tall red flyer crossed his arms, pointing.

"Bein' honest? No clue. Been like that all solar cycle." Jazz replied, watching Prowl literally walk straight past Optimus Prime and into a wall.

"I think he's broken." Moonracer put in, coming to stand with the two mechs. She smirked. "Someone must have put a datapad on the wrong shelf again."

Prowl finally noticed Prime diplomatically clearing his throat and turned to face him. The three onlookers watched Prime carefully ask Prowl something, then put a servo on his shoulder. Prowl shook his helm then, suddenly, his helm froze mid shake, his optics widening. He rapidly finished whatever he was talking about with Prime, power-walked across the room, pulled a random datapad from his subspace, composed himself, and nonchalantly perused it.

Prime looked quite shocked, his hand still stuck out.

"Poor Prime." Moonracer said sympathetically. "Eighty stellar cycles and he still has no idea how to deal with Prowl."

"Well, he-hey, does anyone?" Powerglide joked. "The guy's an enigma."

"Mm. Mysterious _and _handsome." Moonracer replied wickedly. She fanned herself with a servo.

Powerglide gave her a "You're doing _that?_ _Really?" _look and she laughed.

Jazz tapped his chin. "Ah'm int'rested. Takes a lot to spook Prowl, ya know?"

They looked around the room. "Well, Red Alert just came in the door, but that's about it." Moonracer pointed out. Jazz pondered this new development for a second before snapping his digits.

"Aha! Ah've got it. Ya know that scrap last solar cycle?" he asked.

"You mean the one where Devastator decided we were all playthings."

"Right. So, the jolly green giant decided Red Alert was pretty an' went for her. Ah dunno if you's were lookin', but Prowler suddenly goes full-on Enforcer – Ah'm talking sirens and everythin' – an' just swoops down and pulls her out of there."

Powerglide raised a doubting optic ridge, and Moonracer let out a barely audible "awww" and clapped her servos.

"Swooping in is _my _thing, ya know?" Powerglide said. "And I still don't get where you're goin' with this."

Moonracer elbowed the jet good-naturedly. "You're hopeless."

Red Alert finally located Prowl's ingenious hiding spot and peered over his datapad at him.

Jazz gripped Powerglide and Moonracer by their forearms. "It's happening. Watch the magic."

"You are far too excited about this." Powerglide observed. "It's a little bit scary."

"Whatever, PG. Do ya even _know _how much cashola Ah'm gettin' for this?"

Red Alert self-consciously rubbed at the back of her helm. Prowl looked up. "I apologise, Red Alert. What did you need?"

Jazz waited with his intakes flaring. Moonracer and Powerglide waited with substantially less interest.

Red Alert vented, then sighed and stepped closer to Prowl, who cycled his optics perplexedly. "Red Alert?" he asked.

Red Alert suddenly wrapped her arms around the startled Enforcer, whispered a "thank you" and placed a lingering kiss on his faceplate. She pulled away, the blue diodes on her helm flashing briefly.

Moonracer audibly squealed, Powerglide facepalmed, and Jazz fist-pumped in glee. Red Alert looked around, suddenly hyper-aware of the public nature of the room, before panicking and quickly vacating the common room.

Jazz sidled up to Prowl, who was frozen stiff and twitching randomly. "So, thoughts, Prowler?" he asked smoothly.

"She smells like rainbows. Is that even possible? Rainbows." Prowl told Jazz faintly. The Enforcer's legs collapsed beneath him.

"Rainbows." he repeated in wonderment. "_Rainbows._"

* * *

**Yes, Transformers have a smell. Don't question me!**


	6. Patented Repairs Avoidance Technique

**A/N: So apparently the fanon for Prowl is that he hates getting repaired. I sort of combined it with the canon that Knock Out in Prime often sneaks out to compete in illegal street races, and turned it on its head: what if Prowl kept sneaking out to break up illegal street races, and when he gets damaged in the obviously super intense car chases he has to sneak back in and fix himself without Ratchet or Red Alert or First Aid knowing, and well, I just went from there. Which was a blast.**

**Yes, Ratchet _is _that awesome. The guy didn't become Optimus Prime's left hand medic for no reason, y'know. **

**And I kind of like writing a Prime who's less experienced in dealing with his men (and women), so I wrote him like that. Plus, it's funny.  
****Also, yes, I know it's not canon that Red Alert and the Lambo Twins are related, but it was just so tempting I couldn't not have overprotective Sideswipe.**

* * *

_**"Prowl's Patented Repairs Avoidance Technique." **In which Prowl has issues with medical personnel, Prime draws upon the wisdom of his predecessors, and Ratchet proves why he's the boss medic._

* * *

The doors to the Ark's rec room slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the Autobots' SIC and tactician Prowl, who limped through idly rubbing at a large dent on his doorwing where a streak of glossy scarlet paint sliced across the **POLICE **decal (and indeed was scraped all over his left side), grumbling under his breath things such as "can you believe these humans", "no respect for authority", and "completely deserved it" among others; the smell of burned rubber following him around.

"What was that, Prowl?" the Autobots' resident paranoid security director and sometimes medic Red Alert asked, in a falsely sweet voice.

Prowl froze and swivelled around to face the femme, who had a servo on her hip and an incredibly intimidating scowl on her faceplates.

"Absolutely nothing, Red Alert." Prowl answered, his doorwings flicking backwards and up out of visual range. Unfortunately for him, this did literally nothing to allay Red Alert's fury.

"You've been street racing with the humans again."

"_Stopping_ street races," Prowl corrected automatically, before suddenly realising he was talking aloud and backpedalling rapidly, "is what I would do if I _was _in fact even interacting with the humans, which of course I do not do anymore. You know this."

Red Alert raised an optic ridge at Prowl's absolutely pathetic lying ability. "Of course. Oh well, since you're here, Ratchet told me he wanted your doorwings checked."

Prowl stepped backwards, shaking his servos. "That really is not necessary, Red Alert. Look, they work fine." He flapped his doorwings twice to prove it.

By this time a small crowd had gathered, including: both Prowl's brothers, Smokescreen and Bluestreak; Red Alert's brother, Sideswipe (her other brother, Sunstreaker, was currently tied to a police tow truck with his paint scraped to oblivion and his frame dented quite badly out of shape, along with four other wrecked high-speed cars); Optimus Prime, who really didn't want to have to replace his SIC; and Jazz, who currently stood to gain about four million credits in betting money as long as Prowl & Red Alert being an item was confirmed within the next four solar cycles.

Red Alert pointed to the red paint scrapes and the dents on Prowl's frame. "And those are from where exactly?"

Prowl considered his response carefully. By an astounding coincidence, the red paint of the car which had rammed him was at a glance almost identical in shade to Red Alert's own scarlet paint. Additionally, Prowl suddenly remembered the fact that Red Alert looked quite attractive when she was flustered, and that Jazz had promised never to purposely try to glitch his battle computer ever again as long as he won the bet.

A truly despicable idea entered Prowl's processor. A despicable, deplorable idea. An idea which would not only get him out of being literally broken down for scrap, but would also mean freedom from Jazz's numerous attempts to glitch him out. So, in other words, a brilliant idea.

Prowl, with an unbelievable amount of effort on his part, flicked his facial expression from _I've Just Been Caught Sneaking Back Into The Base Damaged_ to _I'm A Super Dreamy Enforcer And Well Aware Of That Fact, Doll, _bent his red chevron back into shape, and asked "Shouldn't you know that, Red Alert? This is your paint, after all, and even off you it looks beautiful."

Red Alert's furious expression vanished and she spluttered on whatever she was about to say, a bright teal flush sweeping up her faceplates. "What?! That's...I...um, thank you?"

Prowl, at this point, was trying as hard as he possibly could to remember every little scrap of the Enforcer Seduction Interrogation Technique – the only module he had ever failed at the Enforcer Academy – he could, while simultaneously rotating around Red Alert and positioning his back to the door so he could run away at the first possible opportunity.

"Yes, and in fact, I enjoyed our time together so much, I'd like to ask you to join me for, uh, a drive...under the stars. Tonight." Prowl continued, frantically trawling through his subspace for anything remotely romantic whatsoever, and trawling through his memories of being Jazz's wingmech for things to say.

Jazz wolf-whistled; Optimus tiredly consulted his datapad, _What To Do When Your Emotionless SIC Seduces Medics To Avoid Repairs, _by Vector Prime; Smokescreen had an arm around Bluestreak's shoulders as he made an expansive gesture in Prowl's direction, no doubt saying something along the lines of "And now observe, young one, as our moron brother Prowl clumsily uses his looks and romantic appeal to escape this angry medic, as is his wont"; and Sideswipe glared at Prowl and took the safety off whatever number of giant guns he currently had in his subspace, which was probably a lot.

"Um...well, uh...I..." Red Alert stuttered, currently crossing her arms self-consciously and coyly tracing shapes on the floor with a stabiliser.

"Lovely. I'll see you later, then. But before I go, would you prefer your quarters or mine?" Prowl asked.

"Yours, probably." Red Alert replied automatically, then completely froze up as Prowl produced a rather bent and misshapen Praxian vanadium blossom from his subspace, pressed it into her servos, gave her a kiss that was _far _too amazing to be real, then literally vanished out the door.

Jazz whooped and went to collect his sizeable winnings, Optimus consulted his datapad, _How To Deal With Relationships Between The Paranoid And The Workaholic, _by Sentinel Prime_; _Bluestreak asked Smokescreen if they should hold Sideswipe back or something (Smokescreen replied in the negative); and Sideswipe carted a neutron fusion turret through the room, snarling.

Prowl kept running until a white arm with a red servo on it appeared from a doorway and clotheslined him, taking the Enforcer right out and sending him sliding along the floor.

Ratchet stepped out of the ops room. "I really enjoyed that." he said, shaking his helm sadly. "Damn me." He took hold of Prowl's right stabiliser and dragged him back through the rec room to the medbay.

Ratchet rolled his optics as he passed Red Alert, still standing there clutching the vanadium blossom with a dreamy look on her faceplates.

"Pah. Honestly." he harrumphed. "We need to have a talk about seducing my assistants, Prowl."

Prowl did not respond, although that was probably to be expected, considering his face was very badly dented and he might have had a dislocated neck joint.


	7. Scarves & Closets

**A/N: Hi all! **

**So I watched How to Train your Dragon 2 yesterday, and HOLY FECKIN' SHIIIIIT IT'S AMAZING.  
So amazing. I might even write some HTTYD fanfiction it's so amazing. No regrets about the film or the massive headache which ensued. Amazing. Cate Blanchett is the best. **

**Huh? Oh, yeah, the story. This is something that me and a friend wrote together (i.e. I wrote about a third of it and then edited the shit out of the friend's work) and hey, I liked it, so woo, let's upload it. Minerva Quebec is my representation of TFA's Minerva - the only Canadian Transformer.**

**Prowl's logic glitch is a very difficult thing to crossover to humanisations. I mean, how do you write that in believably?  
Firstly I started with just him being unemotional; then I figured, no, Prowlie's not _un_emotional, he's just badat _expressing_ emotions. So then I decided to maybe have Prowl having very mild cataplexy - a condition frequently twinned with narcolepsy, cataplexy is when the suffered has a complete muscle lock-up while retaining full awareness; it's caused (statistically) mainly by surprises, laughter, or anger. But this is a comedy oneshot. I can't make fun of that, that would be sick! So I had to find a workaround. And I think I did okay.**

**This oneshot's dedicated to Narcolepsy UK, a brilliant charity who help so much but nobody's ever heard of them. Go. Donate to them. Muchly. Thanks for reading, and please review, too! **

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_"**Scarves & Closets" - **Paul & Eilidh face the latter's second-worst fear, and come out smelling like roses. Rainbows. Trees. Whatever._

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Paul Rowley was rather aloof, seemed cold to those who didn't know him well, wasn't great with people, was absorbed in his notepad 90% of the time; was always working; had a little bit of a _fainting problem_ when met with surprises; and, finally, had a serious thing for Eilidh Dalton.

Eilidh Dalton was very neurotic and panicky; officially paranoid (she had the psychologist's report to prove it); unsocial and shy; constantly wrapped up in her almost-three-feet-long crimson scarf; awkwardly clumsy in the _worst _situations; and, finally, had a serious thing for Paul Rowley.

In both cases, the final trait was known and gossiped about by literally the entire school – pupils, classroom assistants, teachers; even the dinner ladies discussed the unanimously voted "most interesting fifth-formers" and their relationship status at intervals and lunchtimes.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), they were both currently locked in the same broom closet. Together. Even more unfortunately (or fortunately), they were both afraid of the dark. And, of course, the door was clumsily fallen on and locked by their mutual friend Minerva Quebec, who also happened to be an Olympic-level ballet dancer.

Eilidh stood with her back against the wall to make it impossible for someone to sneak up on her that way. Paul sat where he could see Eilidh's face in the tiny amount of light creeping around the door, illuminating half of her nose and one cheekbone.

Neither of them said anything, both much too flustered to come up with anything conversational.

Well, until Eilidh noticed the sound of something small scurrying around at her feet. As paranoid and neurotic as she was, Eilidh was _terrified_ of mice. So when Paul announced that he most definitely did hear one in response to her question of did he hear one, she did the logical thing: she tried to get as far away as possible, which led to her tripping over Paul's outstretched leg, and falling directly onto Paul. Paul had no idea what to do with a very panicked Eilidh sitting on his lap and suddenly displacing his arms. He also had no idea what to do with his suddenly displaced arms.

So, carefully, he tried to put them back on his lap. Which was now covered by Eilidh's lap.

You see where this is going.

Paul knew he was in trouble when he felt soft fabric under his palm instead of his rough jeans.

If he had any doubts about being in trouble, they were dispelled with a sharp slap from Eilidh, who was still trying to figure out which legs were hers and which weren't.

At this point, Paul's mind decided to switch itself back on and tell him that putting his hands there was really not a good idea.

Not that that helped, because he was, as he very suddenly remembered, locked in a closet in very close proximity to a girl who didn't like very close proximities whatsoever.

Eilidh pushed herself as far away as she could – which, admittedly, wasn't very far, as her overly long scarf had tied itself around Paul's abdomen without her prior consent – and as she pulled _back_ she yanked him _forward_, ending up with him on top of her.

This was not what Eilidh had planned for this situation, mainly due to the fact that she had never planned for this situation.

This really wasn't what Paul expected, either. He froze up for a moment, suddenly feeling the frantic beating on his chest from the girl still semi-pinned underneath him before remembering that social interactions didn't work like that. Quickly rolling off of her, he tried not to pull on the scarf so much as to pull Eilidh back on top of him and, miraculously, succeeded.

Eilidh quickly unwound the scarf from her neck, realising that would be faster than trying to untangle it from herself and Paul.

Just as she thought that once she had her scarf back it would all be over, the instigator of the entire mishap ran across her fingers. With a shriek, she leapt back into Paul's lap, hiding her face in his chest.

Paul was not good with pretty girls leaping up and into his chest. At all.

However, he wasn't exactly able to stop the very pretty girl who was currently ticking his nose with her scarlet hair.

He calmed himself down by taking a few deep breaths and inadvertently getting the smell of _rainbows _up his nose (admittedly, very calming). The mouse regarded them critically, before turning up its irritating little nose and scurrying off back into the hole from whence it came. Paul hesitantly tapped Eilidh on the shoulder.

"It's gone." he whispered in her ear.

For some reason Eilidh didn't move.

Paul couldn't work out why Eilidh didn't immediately vacate his lap. She hated physical contact – with _anyone_.

It wasn't until he felt her release a shuddering breath against his neck that he understood, and punched himself mentally. He would never actually ask her out loud if she were crying, as that would definitely result in the slow and brutal death of any chance he might possibly ever have had with her, but he slowly and carefully laid his arms about her (very shapely, his mind noted unhelpfully) waist.

When he was met with no resistance from Eilidh, Paul gently pulled her closer to him. Because it would be more comfortable for her, not having to twist her neck at such an odd angle, he reasoned. The thing he wasn't expecting was for Eilidh to wrap her arms around him in return, and, though he was sure it was all in his head, tilt her head and twist her shoulders slightly so it was less like her hiding from the mouse in his shoulder and more like cuddling.

Eilidh was shocked at herself. What was she doing? He had said the mouse was gone, and he had no reason to lie to her. But when she felt his arms around her waist, the part of her brain that controlled her movements decided to stop listening to any of the other parts of her brain.

Of course, what neither of them expected was for the door to suddenly be unlocked and opened, by a none-too-pleased looking teacher.

Now, what would you say is a high school teacher's first thought when finding two students (one with the other's scarf around his midsection), looking for all the world like they're cuddling on the floor of a high school's typically dishevelled-looking broom closet?

With a look so stern as to be frightening, the teacher ordered them to the headteacher's office.

The two walked slowly, heads hung in shame of something they didn't actually do, to the office, Paul untangling Eilidh's scarf from himself as he went.

After assuring the teacher, their respective guidance teachers, the headteacher, their parents, four police officers, and several other assorted figures of authority that nothing whatsoever had happened in the closet, and it was all just a joke gone horribly, horribly wrong, Paul and Eilidh were sent home. As they parted in the school's car park, neither noticed the other look other their shoulder.

It wasn't until she was halfway home that Eilidh realised that Paul still had her scarf.

Paul didn't realise it until he was digging through his bag for homework later that night, and found it in the pocket where he'd stuffed it. He couldn't believe Eilidh hadn't demanded it back the moment they left the school office that afternoon.

And if it smelled like Eilidh in the distinctly indescribable way that only she smelled (Rainbows. Definitely rainbows.), what business was that of his? It most certainly wasn't the reason that he still had it wrapped around his neck when he fell asleep that night.

The next day, during morning interval, Paul found Eilidh in her usual hiding place: the library, watching everyone on the grounds through the large-ish windows. When Eilidh heard the chair across the table being pulled out, and the last person she thought it would be sat down, she couldn't help the little flutter her heart seemed to give.

Paul pulled the scarf out of his pocket and slid it across the table, expecting to be yelled at for keeping it overnight. Instead, she took it with only a small smile and wound it back around her neck. Paul was slightly saddened to see such a pretty neck – could necks be pretty? Paul didn't care, hers was – hidden from the world, but felt a sudden, sharp pang of jealousy at the thought of anyone else seeing her without her scarf, seemingly so vulnerable without it to hide behind.

When the bell rang and students began to file out of the library towards their period three classes, Eilidh made a split-second decision. Darting around the table, she planted a quick kiss on Paul's lips before fleeing the library, scarf safely around her neck providing a nice beacon to watch through the shelves. When Paul stumbled in late to fourth period with a bandage round his head – having missed third altogether because he fainted in the library, cracked his head off the table, and had to be carried down to the medical wing – he still looked slightly dazed, pink dusting his cheeks and an inexplicable taste of strawberries in his mouth.

And if a night with Paul had made her scarf smell like his oddly enthralling foresty scent, well, what business of Eilidh's was that? It certainly wasn't the reason it was still wrapped around her neck as she fell asleep that night.

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**also maybe super sad oneshot later; I also watched the G1 film. Poor Prowl. ****And Ironhide. ****And Windcharger and Wheeljack. And Thundercracker and Skywarp and Blitzwing and Starscream and Ratchet and Brawn and Hound and Bluestreak and Mirage and Smokescreen and Kickback and Shrapnel and Bombshell and Optimus and pretty much everyone, really.**

**Except freakin' Rodimus. Dammit, Rodimus. This is all your fault.**

**Also Wheelie. No one likes you, Wheelie. Not even Daniel likes you, Wheelie.**


	8. The Well at the End of the World

**A/N: Yeah, so this is the sad thing I was talking about. It's...sad. **

**It's also probably my emotional response to both the massacre that was the G1 movie, and maybe the Infinite Optimus paradox. You know, Prime dies but comes back to life, everyone else dies permanently (unless you're watching the Unicron Trilogy)****.**

**Oh well, let's read some reviews!**

**"what's wrong with Wheelie"**

***twitch***

**Pray you never have to find out.**

***twitch***

**Anyway! Pack the tissues, read. Review if even the slightest part of you felt sad! **

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**The Well at the End of the World**

The sarcophagus is easy to find. In the Hall of Heroes; between Ratchet and Ironhide; two to the right of Wheeljack.

Cybertronians are interred in unbreakable, cryogenically frozen carbonadium coffins; with their life-sized statue in shining gold and silver mounted on the lid. Most Cybertronian burial grounds post-War are great halls lined with proud statues; Autobots and Decepticons standing side-by-side – all grudges are forgotten in death.

Red Alert doesn't leave the Hall of Heroes. She hasn't since the World-Eater was destroyed and Prowl returned to a home he could never share with her.

His statue looks just as handsome as he ever did. Not that Red Alert can see that. All she sees is the hole blasted in his chest; his spark chamber ruptured and empty; the deathly orange fire coughing from his surprised, open mouth and shattered optics as he died.

She endlessly replays that moment; her last memory of him; when he smiled and kissed her before stepping onto the shuttle carrying him to face the barrel of Megatron's fusion cannon. She can't even cry anymore, after a century of aching, endless pain.

Sometimes Slipstream – a femme Seeker Red Alert doesn't really know – brings the occasional Energon cube for her. Slipstream visits daily, crying over the vandalised and defaced statue above the coffin filled with the ashes of a ghost, a bent and broken golden crown lying sadly on the smooth metal.

Sometimes Red Alert hears Starscream's voice, echoing and disconnected, singing a breathy tune to the only one who can't hate him - _"And I'm still in love with you/I want to see you dance again/Because I'm still in love with you/On this silver moon" – _and she asks the Hall why her Prowl can't come back and sing to her.

Sometimes Optimus Prime visits the Hall, his optics guilty and downcast almost the moment he steps through the doors. She knows why. Prime couldn't make Megatron stay dead. Prime ordered the supply run to Earth. _Prime_ _killed her Prowl. _And Prime came back from the dead, all alone. Ratchet and Ironhide and Wheeljack and Mirage and Brawn and Windcharger and Bluestreak and Smokescreen and beautiful, beautiful Prowl all stayed in their cold metal boxes. And he knows it.

Prime offered the Matrix to her once. Just a look, through all the world's memories of Prowl. But it was still that; still just a look. Prowl couldn't hold her and tell her it would all be alright; he couldn't kiss her and promise he'd never leave; he couldn't even touch her faceplates and remind her he still loved her.

The world is broken; she's talking to a statue while blue tears fall at its feet; a ghost's apologies ring in her audials; and Red Alert's shattered spark leaves for the Well, one shard at a time.

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**No I wasn't talking about Alduin, you sillies, I meant Unicron. Ugh. Ruining the emotion time now, sorry. **

******DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN "HARVEST MOON" BY NEIL YOUNG AND NEITHER DOES STARSCREAM. NO PROFIT IS MADE FROM THIS ONLINE PUBLICATION. ETC ETC. DON'T TAKE MY STORY AWAY FANFICTION COPYRIGHT LADY.**


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